Noel's Souvenir of the Fortieth Annual Picnic 



F 572 
.B5 N7 
Copy 1 





Berrien County Oia oeiuers Association 




The Rose of 



Copyrighted, 1914, by Theo. Noel. 



•:^6-/vr 




at Ihe Indian 1 iilils, l^il'.l 

©CI.A;J8(J075 



SEP l^ 19!4 



Personal Preface 



On the occasion of the fortieth annual 
celebration of Old Settlers Day at Indian 
Field, 19 14, I was privileged to listen to an 
address delivered by Mr. R. W. Reese, of 
Sunnybrook Farm, Eau Claire, which so 
impressed me that I arose from my seat 
and addressed the president in substance 
as follows : 

"Mr. President: This has been the 
grandest talk ever delivered on these 
grounds, and one of which we are all proud, 
and if you will procure for me a copy, I 
will have it published in pamphlet form 
and have it sent to every old settler who 
will request a copy. 

Mr. S. M. Clawson, of Pipestone, 
moved that the request be complied with. 



and the vast audience voted unanimously 
in its favor, thus expressing their appreci- 
ation of the most generous offer. 

Mr. John Johnson, ex-sheriff, secured a 
copy of the address and it has been printed 
in a neat souvenir edition, illustrated with 
scenes of some of the most beautiful spots 
found in the world of nature. 

This souvenir is dedicated to the Pio- 
neers of Berrien County, living and dead. 
It has for its chief object the building up 
of a sentiment in the hearts of the people 
that will stimulate them to greater rever- 
ence in memory of those who were fore- 
most In car\ing from a tt-ilderness the ban- 
ner county of the state. 

They were great benefactors whose ser- 



vices were so transcendently great that we 
honor ourselves by remembering to honor 
them. 

They were as grand and noble as any 
souls that ever wore the clay of earth about 
them, and to rightly estimate the superb 
dimensions and nobility of their characters 
we ought to study their lives in connection 
with the times in which they lived. 

With supreme courage, and an unfalter- 
ing faith in the Right, they became public 
benefactors and bathed their names in im- 
mortality. 

Every age has her great characters, 
e\erv land her great heroes. 

Backward across the centuries of the past 
we can see a few sunken mountain peaks 
jut out from oblivion's sea. The telescope 
of time, as it sweeps the historic heavens, 



still shows the greatest souls of all history 
— those who have defied fate, and all that 
fortune, death and danger dare — hitched 
their chariots to the star of hope and trans- 
fomied a wilderness into a land of homes, 
a garden spot of the world. 

Berrien County is the home of my birth. 
She holds in her history a gentle memory- 
of many, who long ago became weary of 
life's burden and fell asleep by the wayside 
and entered into eternal rest. 

I am forcibly reminded that I am grow- 
ing old, and shall soon pass on to my 
reward, and with me the memory of all the 
grand past of Berrien County's old settlers, 
who in my esteem shall live in song and 
story as long as the noble race lives to in- 
habit God's globe. 

I desire to perpetuate in everlasting re- 



gard those who by birthright or adoption 
identified themselves with the creation, de- 
velopment and permanency of all the in- 
stitutions of which we, as good citizens, are 
justly proud. 

Let us rehabilitate the organization of 
Old Settlers Day; reorganize and re-estab- 
lish it on its original plan. Let common 
interest guide in conducting the exercises 
of that day, so that good fellowship will 
reign supreme, and that the memory of 
those gone before may be exalted. 

I am sending this little souvenir to those 
who are loyal to the traditons of our his- 
tory as a county and with the firm belief 
that it will exercise a potent influence in 



observing one day in each year when fitting 
services will be held in honor of our pio- 
neers — both living and dead. 

Let it not be degraded to the level of 
common things, but elevated always to that 
plane where noble ideas, elevating influ- 
ences and uplifting sentiments shall prevail. 

With ardent hopes for a most inspiring 
future, I am, 

Yours for success. 




Berrien Springs, Michigan, 19 14. 



Foreword 



Pioneers' Day belongs to the people. It 
is essentially a day when we revive and re- 
new the memories of our illustrious sires — 
the pioneers of Berrien County. 

Pioneer Day should be a day when all 
the people of the county, regardless of po- 
litical affiliations, religious enthusiasm or 
secular interests, should meet on a common 
level, divested of all personal interests, or 
pecuniary gains, and celebrate by fitting cer- 
emony the real object for which Pioneer 
Day was instituted, namely, to perpetuate 
the memory of the pioneer fathers and 
mothers of Berrien County and to instill 
into the minds of the rising generation a 
spirit of patriotic pride in fostering and 



maintaining a reverence for the memory of 
them. 

It is impossible in the space allotted to 
mention the names of those who were 
largely instrumental in reclaiming Berrien 
County from its primeval wilderness and 
making it the banner county of Michigan; 
yet we, of this generation, must see to it that 
what they gained by their labors and deter- 
mination shall be emblazoned upon the 
scroll of progress and illumined by a spirit 
of loyalty on the part of those who are to- 
day enjoying the fruits of their conquest. 

Green be their memory, and verdant to the 
judjrment day. 

Pioneer Day belongs to all the people 
of Berrien County; the old, the middle-aged 



and the young. The interests of those who 
must soon assume the reins of government 
must not be forgotten, and they should 
prove the objects of special attention. 

Those in charge should make special in- 
ducement to have the youth in attendance 
in the celebration of Pioneers' Day, and 
those who speak should make special prep- 
aration to interest and instruct them in the 
great work of good government and social 
reform. 

The Great Creator has given us a com- 
mon interest in the things of this earth life; 



in the air, the water, and the land. Indian 
Field is a grand park fashioned by the hand 
of the Great Architect, and in that delight- 
ful spot we should all feel at home. There 
let us gather on the second Wednesday of 
each June, with our children and our neigh- 
bors, and spend the entire day. 

Let us take our dinners, and under the 
leafy canopy, and cooled by the refreshing 
breeze from Lake Chapin, regale ourselves 
and be glad we live in grand old Berrien 
County. 

R. W. R. 



The Address by Mr. R. W. Reese 



Mr. President and Fellow Countrymen: 

This day we meet to indulge in our an- 
nual greeting of old friends, pioneers and 
neighbors. This is a day on which we re- 
count our manifold blessings, and also pass 
in quiet review the forty years which have 
gone into history' since "Old Settlers" day 
came into existence. This custom of gather- 
ing once each year in this beautiful grove 
should always be inspiring and clothe us 
with greater zeal to foster and encourage it. 

It is well that we stop in the mad rush 
through life and live once more in the days 
that are gone forever from us. 

Not long ago, as I sat by the open win- 
dow looking out into the moonlight, there 
came borne upon the still night air the sound 
of voices, of boys and girls. They were 
singing: 



"AVhere are the friends 
That we knew in our youth, 

Ix)ng. long ago. long ago? 
Gone to their homes 
In the mansions of truth, 

Long, long ago. long ago. 
Homes that were brightest 
\\'ere shrouded in gloom. 
Hearts that were lightest 
Were laid in the tomb. 

Long, long ago, long ago." 

This old and familiar song was repeated 
over and over again, and the music was 
harmonious. Yet it carried me back so 
many years that it seemed like a song my 
mother sang in my infancy, when it was not 
easy to separate dreams from realities. 

That song carried me back to a time 
before those young voices had an existence, 
and it impressed me that the heart of those 
youthful singers contained the principle of 
a faith that is as old as the everlasting hills. 
It is the primal force that lies at the bottom 
of every \enture and Is an exponent of 



strength in the world today. Faith is the 
substance of things hoped for, the evidence 
of things not seen, and its truth is verified 
in every department of hfe. 

Go with me back to those childhood 
days and we can see the result of labor ac- 
complished with faith as a guiding star. 
Our pioneer fathers and mothers entered 
the wilderness away out on the frontier. 
The soil was rich, but to make it subservient 
to the needs of the husbandman, mighty 
labors were performed, and they were re- 
warded by seeing the forests give way to 
cultivated fields, and the primeval cabin 
replaced by modern homes. Thus they 
continued from year to year, and you who 
have long since left the paternal roof can 
look back upon a scene that is dearer to you 
than any other place. 

There is where you first saw the light of 
life. There is where your youthful days 
were passed. You can remember the old 



school house with its ancient furniture, and 
your first teacher to give you instruction. 
You can remember the creek which flowed 
by back of the school house, and the hill 
where you coasted. You can look back and 
see the many changes made since you left 
home. The fathers and mothers who laid 
the foundation for the old home, and who 
brought it to a stage of perfection, may 
have long since been gathered to their 
fathers, and are enjoying their well-earned 
reward. 

Our pioneer fathers and mothers were 
progressive, and, in a large measure, they 
transmitted that virtue to their posterity, 
yet faith was the magic touchstone that led 
to success. 

That same potent factor guided the in- 
ventor to success ; led the mariner in quest 
of fame and fortune; gave vigor to the 
arms, nerves and hearts of the soldier boys 
on the field of battle; induces the husband- 




Showing the Indian I'i.l.ls ..n the opiinsilc siilc- of the 



man to sow the grain, and spurs the student 
to other conquests in the fields of lore. 

As often as we wander back to those 
early days, and, in imagination, try to live 
again as we lived then, to think as we 
thought then, and to revel in all those youth- 
ful sports as we revelled then, memory 
carves a heaven on earth out of the sweet 
remembrances which come trooping forth 
to greet us, 

"And forever and forever. 
As long as the river flows. 
As long as the heart has passions. 
As long as life has woes." 

such memories will bring to us a picture of 
the sunny days of youth where we recognize 
the old-time simplicity and the old-time 
virtues that gave strength and vigor to the 
early settlers of our country. I seem to 
hear the old-time songs, and in a spirit of 
exuberant joy join in the chorus which 
rounds out in hosannas of glad acclaim. 
The old-time religion and the old-time 



faith are in evidence, and no man or woman 
was ashamed of his profession. Just notice 
the contrast between the early customs and 
religious zeal with modern usages and 
advanced thought. I was reading in a 
metropolitan paper recently that one of the 
fashionable churches had adopted a rule 
that at each Sunday evening service all the 
worshippers must appear in full evening 
dress, and at a recent Congress of Religions 
a Chicago minister made this statement: 
"I believe in dancing and card playing. I 
would turn the church vestry into a hall for 
dancing. I'd have billiard and pool tables, 
and I'd have card playing under the aus- 
pices and supervision of the church." This 
Chicago clergyman heralds a new dispensa- 
tion, and we need not be surprised if some 
other exponent of modern religion will 
advocate a saloon in the basement and a 
poker table in the attic as valuable adjuncts 
to a modern church. 




Dean's Bluff, overlooking St. Joseph Valley, Berrien Springs in distan 



There is a world of difference between 
the theology of today and the theology of 
fifty years ago, and a conviction is steadily 
working in the hearts of the people of today 
that the account of the Creation is a myth, 
and the gospel of the Evangelists a super- 
stition. I am glad, however, that these 
tendencies and their influences have little 
hold as yet on our country people. 

The hope of the nation and of society 
and of religion lies in the vigor and honor 
of the great medial classes, and these are 
found in our country homes; around the 
family hearthstone away from influences of 
modern social conditions; away from the 
hypocrisy and snobbery of modern society; 
where every woman is a queen, every man 
a king; bubbling over with sturdy, robust 
manhood, ready to die for his honor, his 
home and his country. 

I have many times read with wonder 
and awe of the hanging gardens of Babylon 
which Nebuchadnezzar reared In graceful 



terraces high above the brazen gates of the 
city to remind his Medean wife of her 
mountain home, but to me the sight was 
grander when I looked through youthful 
eyes and saw the garden spot of the world 
right here in the valley of the old St. Joe, 
with its sun-kissed banks, and its gentle 
undulations of field and forest. Right here 
in majestic Michigan, with her blue sky, 
pellucid streams, her balmy air, silver\' 
lakes, gorgeous sunsets and most productive 
soil. 

And now after a half century has 
passed into history, and I have many times 
gazed on the masterpieces of Raphael, 
Rembrandt, Angelo, Reynolds and Van 
Dyke, I have come to the conclusion that 
no painter's brush ever has or ever can pro- 
duce on canvas half the glory and majesty 
and sublimity of an autumn sunset as the 
great orb of day sinks slowly to the west 
and is lost in the waters of Lake Michigan, 
and the fading sunlight gilding the forest- 




Fairfield Karm, Krnslus Murphy. Proprietor, near Berrien I entre. Michii 



girted banks of the winding St. Joe and 
throwing over the variegated foliage its 
soft and mellow radiance. 

We talk about music and know that it 
is grand and inspiring. We know that 
Mozart, Mendelssohn, Handel and Wag- 
ner have poured forth a flood of melody 
and harmony which will delight the musical 
ear of mankind while civilization lasts, but 
it can never inspire that feeling of buoyancy 
and exhiliration, that bubbling joy and 
gladness which is felt by the barefoot boy 
as he listens to the morning song of the 
mocking bird and the robin as they flit from 
limb to limb while the sunlight glistens on 
the dew and the very air is full of life and 
gladness. 

A thousand fond associations throng 
upon us, roused by the spirit of the hour. 
In this delightful grove rest, like sweet 
dews of the morning, the gentle recollection 
of our early life; around these hills and 



gentle undulations cling, like gathering 
mists, the mighty memories of other days, 
and far away on the horizon of the past 
gleam, like our own northern lights, the 
gentle virtues and heroic characters of our 
pioneer fathers and mothers. 

Mr. President, the true history of our 
county is told in the lives of our citizens 
who lived and struggled, wrought and suf- 
fered to create it. We revere them for what 
they did; we love them for the sacrifices 
they made. They braved the perils of for- 
est and flood, and made is possible for us to 
enjoy today's blessings. Their's was not an 
age of speculation, but an age of action; 
simplicity marked each effort, and broad- 
gauged honesty circumscribed each life. 
Then, too, the children of those early days 
were inured to toil and attained their prime 
embellished with strength of mind and 
body, brain and muscle, so necessary for a 
useful and happy life. The food was plain 




Mr. and Mrs. John Johnson at their residence at Berrien Centre, Michigan 



but palatable. In my own experience, our 
family used no sugar, except from the sap 
of the maple tree, and we knew nothing 
of the dainty breakfast foods and rich 
pastry of the present day. Our clothes 
were extremely modest. Our mothers spun 
the wool of the sheep into yarn, and wove 
it into cloth, from which she fashioned the 
garments we wore. Blue jeans cloth for 
our pants was considered something fine. 

Fine soft underwear was not known, 
and when the winter time came, if one pair 
of pants was not enough to keep us warm, 
another pair was added, and another and 
another, if necessary. 

In those days the people were happy. 
Neighbors were separated from each other 
by long distance, but they were neighbors 
in the broadest sense. They chose for their 
motto, "Be right and stand together." "All 
for one, one for all and all for all." It was 
the spirit which made Berrien County forge 



to the front in all matters. It was the spirit 
which has made Berrien County equal to 
e\ery emergency in its history. It was the 
spirit which created the ambition and pro- 
gress which are born and bred in the bone 
of her people. 

In the battle of life we have all faced 
life's mistakes with manly courage. Mis- 
takes are the inevitable accompaniment of 
the greatest gift given to man — individual 
freedom of action. If man were only a 
pawn in the fingers of omnipotence, with no 
self-moving power, he would never make a 
mistake, but would be degraded to the 
ranks of the lower animals and plants. An 
oyster never makes a mistake. Mistakes are 
the pains of wisdom, the raw material of 
error that we transform into higher living. 
Without them there would be no growth, 
no progress, no conquest. Mistakes of men 
and women are the knots and tangles, the 
broken threads and the dropped stitches in 



the web of their living. They are the mis- 
deals in judgment, the unwise investment in 
morals, the profit and loss account of wis- 
dom and the misleading by-paths from the 
road to truth. Mistakes are always a part 
of learning, and life is simply giv^en us that 
we may learn how to live. A man or a 
woman who never made a mistake never 
accomplished anything else worthy of men- 
tion. Men and women become great not 
by making mistakes, but by profiting by 
those they do make; by getting from them 
the courage of a new regenerating influence 
and inspiration with no irritating sting of 
useless regret; by building a glorious today 
on the ruins of a yesterday, ^^^hen a cap- 
tain finds his vessel is out of the right course, 
he wastes no time in bemoaning his fate, 
but at the first sunburst takes new bearings, 
changes his course, and with renewed cour- 
age heads toward the harbor and endeavors 
to make up the time he has lost. 



Musing over the dreams of youth is a 
dangerous mental dissipation. "It might 
ha\'e been" is the lullaby of regret which 
often puts to sleep the best efforts of men. 
We need tonics in life more often than we 
need narcotics. 

We may go back in memory to some 
fork in the road of life and imagine what 
would have happened and how much better 
off we would be, if we had only taken the 
other road. We sigh and wish we had done 
differently and say: "If I had onlv learned 
some other business!" "If I had married 
some other woman!" "If I had bought 
telephone stock at 30!" and in this manner 
run our empty train of thought over the 
slippery "Ifs." Even if these courses had 
been wiser, it is as impossible to change 
them now as for the human race to return 
to the original bit of protoplasm from 
which science declares we are evolved. The 
past does not belong to us; it is only the 




S. M. Clawson's Residence 



golden present that is ours to transform 
into a new past that will be a joy to look 
back to in the years to come. 

The other road always looks attractive. 
Distant sails are always white; far-off hills 
seem always greenest. The other road 
might have meant wealth with no happi- 
ness; fame might have filled our ears with 
the sweet melody of praise, but the dearer 
things of earth might ha\'e been denied us. 
What the other road might have meant for 
us, no eternity of thought can reveal. If 
we were impatient yesterday it should in- 
spire us to be more patient today. Our un- 
fairness to one may open our eyes to greater 
fairness to others. 

The world may condemn us for not 
making a success in life. What does the 
silly, babbling world know about our lives? 
What does it matter what others think, if 
we have done our best? The past is gone, 
the present only is ours. 



In every heart is a secret chamber where 
the walls are covered with the drapery and 
memorials of the past. Rare treasures fill 
the cabinet of ebony. Sweet faces long ago 
forgotten by the world smile tranquilly 
from golden encasements, and voices are 
heard whose musical cadences were sweet 
to our ears long years ago. A drawer yields 
to the impulse of a mother's hand, and there 
lies a tiny stocking, a little shoe, a white 
plume nodding on a snowy hat, or a broken 
toy, and the secret door opens. A mother's 
eyes are looking. She is living again in the 
buried years that have no resurrection ex- 
cept this. As it is with the mother, so it is 
with all. There is not a mortal who does 
not, at times, enter and stand among the 
broken images, dethroned idols and buried 
hopes of years gone by and gaze upon the 
relics of other days. 

This world is made up of yesterday, to- 
day and tomorrow. Yesterday contains all 



the battlefields on which we fought and won 
a victory, or suffered defeat ; yesterday holds 
in gentle memor}' all the pioneers who, with 
hopes high and faith strong, settled in the 
wilderness of Berrien County and built up 
their homes. This day is ours. Memory 
holds before us the fragrance of the past 
which is reflected from a multitude of noble 
characters to whom we of the present gen- 
eration owe a debt of gratitude. Cicero 
calls gratitude the mother of all virtues, and 
we as grateful children must show to the 
world the affection and reverence we owe to 
our pioneer fathers and mothers of Berrien 
count}'. Gratitude is not only the memory 
we carry in mind, but the homage of the 
heart. 

It is our supreme duty to preserve inxio- 
late the inheritance won for us by our illus- 
trious sires. 1 he children of today should 
be taught to appreciate the pri\ileges they 
enjoy, made possible by those who have 
long since been gathered to their fathers. 



They should be taught that the reins of 
government must soon pass from the hands 
of the fathers and mothers into their hands 
and the true dignity and value of good gov- 
ernment made a part of their education. 

The world is now going at too great a 
pace, and love of good government is being 
smothered under an avalanche of money 
madness. 

William J. Bryan, as Secretary of State, 
declares that he cannot live on his $12,000 
salary and he must resort to the lecture 
platform to raise more money. It is not 
the high cost of living, but the cost of high 
li\ing. Br^'an's predecessors did the same 
thing. So it goes, and for what? Just to 
make a show of royalty like European 
countries. Just to satisfy the cra\-ings of a 
lot of society parasites who demand expen- 
sive functions that they may show oft their 
wealth and make the boast of kuazviug 
public men. 

If our iHiblic men spent their salaries in 



studying questions that would be beneficial 
to their constituents it would be a demon- 
stration of patriotism, but as long as it is 
squandered in wining and dining, and mak- 
ing a display for social reasons only it shows 
a tendency to create a government by wealth 
instead of by brains and ability. 

I do not care where a man comes from 
or what his ancestry may have been, if he 
rises as near to the perfection of that divine 
standard as his human foibles and weak- 
nesses will permit, then he is as good as 
anybody who does not acquire greater per- 
fection. 

American manhood has always stood 



for the recognition of the standard of right 
and it is our duty and privilege to attain to 
that perfection every day. 

But I must hasten to a close. This day 
is yours to enjoy. This day is yours to bring 
back from the distant shadows those whose 
voices are hushed forever in eternal sleep. 
We have all pondered on the life that lies 
beyond the walls and windows of our world ; 
the life into which our friends have entered. 
Their lives were beautiful and in their death 
was left a gentle memory to those who sur- 
vive them. 

I thank you for your patience in listen- 
ing, and bid you hail and farewell. 




Noel Range. Berrien Sprincs. Michiitan 




A Count of Losses 

Life is a count of losses, 

Every year; 
For the weak are heavier crosses. 

Every year; 
Lost Springs with sobs replying 
Unto weary Autumns' sighing, 
While those we love are dying, 

Every year. 

The days have less of gladness, 

Every year; 
The nights more weight of sadness, 

Every year; 
Fair Springs no longer charm 'is, 
The winds and weather harm us. 
The threats of death alarm us. 

Every year. 



There come new cares and sorrows, 

Every year; 
Dark days and darker morrows, 

Every year; 



The ghosts of dead loves haunt us. 
The ghosts of changed friends taunt us, 
And disappointments daunt us, 
Every year. 

To the Past go more dead faces, 

Every year; 
As the loved leave vacant places. 

Every year; 
Everywhere the sad eyes meet us. 
In the evening's dusk they greet us, 
And to come to them entreat us. 

Every year. 



"You are growing old," they tell us, 

Every year; 
"You are more alone," they tell us. 

Every year; 
"You can win no new affection," 
"You have only recollection," 
"Deeper sorrow and dejection," 

"Every year." 



Too true, Life's shores are shifting, 

Every year; 
And we are seaward drifting. 

Every year. 
Old places, changing, fret us. 
The living more forget us. 
There are fewer to regret us, 

Every year. 



But the truer life draws nigher, 

Every year; 
And its Morning-star climbs higher. 

Every year; 
Earth's hold on us grows slighter, 
And the heavy burden lighter. 
And the Dawn immortal brighter. 

Every year. 



. B. MORSE COMPANY, ST. JOSEPH, HICHrOAN 
DESIGNERS-ENGrlAVERS-PRINTERS 



